3 Jason Todd Ficlets: Various | DCU | Jason, Bruce | PG-13, R | 1/1 ea
Fandom: DCU
Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything, the schmucks.
Author's Notes: All written for comment_fic & 50_darkfics.
Title | Rating | Word Count | Prompt(s) (as summary)
The Box on the Table | PG-13 | 285 w | First real birthday; Present
The large, flat box on the table was making Jay nervous. No good ever came out of boxes like those, and especially not from ones wrapped up in pretty paper and ribbons and bows. Last time he saw one like that, turned out there was a pair of fully-automatics wrapped up in tissue paper inside, a 'gift' from a local dealer in return for his services, if he'd come aboard the operation; at all of eleven, he'd vowed never to accept another present as long as he lived.
But this time... well, Jason had been at the Manor for months now, and Bruce had only given him good things so far. It could be a tux for some formal event. It could be something ridiculously normal, like a skateboard. It could be... he didn't know. Just didn't have a clue what rich people gave each other on birthdays. Last real present he got was a new pair of jeans from his mother, two years before she died. And that was big news.
Tentatively, he reached out to pull off the bow, unwrap the green, red, and yellow paper-tacky, being reminded of just who he wasn't-and tug the top off the long box, both Bruce and Alfred watching him with eager looks. He folded the paper back, and-
“Happy birthday, Jason. I hope you like it.”
His chest and throat instantly tight with shock and gratitude at the surprise, all Jason could do was swipe a hand across his suddenly wet eyes, the yellow 'R' on the costume in the box blurring before him as he nodded his silent thanks.
Compared to this, he didn't think he'd ever had a real birthday before today.
~*~*~*~
Breathe. Sew. | PG-13 | 220 w | Any former Robin patching themself up after an injury; Pain
The blood isn't even a consideration. He's bled before, and a lot worse than this. No, the problem is keeping his vision from going blurry as the pain tries to steal his focus; sewing a gash like this just can't be done half-assed.
In, out. In, out. Tie. Cut. Repeat. Jason keeps sewing, swallowing the bile in this throat as his stomach tries to rebel in turn at the searing fire of agony, the sting of the needle not even registering beneath the raging burn. It's a deep cut, jagged across his midsection, fucking blade he didn't even see, bastards.
Breathe. Sew.
He wishes he could sew like Alfred does, medical precision and all that shit, first the lower layers of skin, then the outer layers, like a surgeon. The healing and the scars were never that bad when the old man had patched him up.
This is gonna take weeks to come back from, and the scar's gonna be ugly as hell.
Chuckling bitterly at the thought, Jay pulls the last stitch taught and ties it off, cuts the cheap sewing thread with his favorite knife.
A long draw off the bottle of Jack he keeps for just this sort of occasion, and Jay gives into the pain, not even bothering to clean up. It'll just have to wait till he wakes up.
~*~*~*~
The Boogieman | R | 153 w | Seasons come and go, but he is still the same; Ancient
Somewhere along the way, Jason stopped counting the years. All the other Bats he once knew-and their descendants with them-were long dead, most of the Titans as well, with only the Supers, the Wonders, and him remaining, the last of a fabled generation.
Of course, he was the only one using the much-despised Lazarus Pit to regenerate himself, the others still naturally young after so many millennia. Clark. Diana. Donna. But his scars faded with each use, a new canvas upon which to rewrite his history, old injuries mended so he could fight once again. It was a good trade off with the decade-long bouts of insanity that inevitably followed, considering the alternative.
And century after century, the legend of the Red Hood grew, as ancient and feared as the once-vaunted Batman, the savior and scourge of Gotham. As boogieman stories went, it wasn't half-bad.
If only he wasn't so fucking alone.
~*~*~*~
Characters: Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne
Disclaimer: DC and WB own everything, the schmucks.
Author's Notes: All written for comment_fic & 50_darkfics.
Title | Rating | Word Count | Prompt(s) (as summary)
The Box on the Table | PG-13 | 285 w | First real birthday; Present
The large, flat box on the table was making Jay nervous. No good ever came out of boxes like those, and especially not from ones wrapped up in pretty paper and ribbons and bows. Last time he saw one like that, turned out there was a pair of fully-automatics wrapped up in tissue paper inside, a 'gift' from a local dealer in return for his services, if he'd come aboard the operation; at all of eleven, he'd vowed never to accept another present as long as he lived.
But this time... well, Jason had been at the Manor for months now, and Bruce had only given him good things so far. It could be a tux for some formal event. It could be something ridiculously normal, like a skateboard. It could be... he didn't know. Just didn't have a clue what rich people gave each other on birthdays. Last real present he got was a new pair of jeans from his mother, two years before she died. And that was big news.
Tentatively, he reached out to pull off the bow, unwrap the green, red, and yellow paper-tacky, being reminded of just who he wasn't-and tug the top off the long box, both Bruce and Alfred watching him with eager looks. He folded the paper back, and-
“Happy birthday, Jason. I hope you like it.”
His chest and throat instantly tight with shock and gratitude at the surprise, all Jason could do was swipe a hand across his suddenly wet eyes, the yellow 'R' on the costume in the box blurring before him as he nodded his silent thanks.
Compared to this, he didn't think he'd ever had a real birthday before today.
~*~*~*~
Breathe. Sew. | PG-13 | 220 w | Any former Robin patching themself up after an injury; Pain
The blood isn't even a consideration. He's bled before, and a lot worse than this. No, the problem is keeping his vision from going blurry as the pain tries to steal his focus; sewing a gash like this just can't be done half-assed.
In, out. In, out. Tie. Cut. Repeat. Jason keeps sewing, swallowing the bile in this throat as his stomach tries to rebel in turn at the searing fire of agony, the sting of the needle not even registering beneath the raging burn. It's a deep cut, jagged across his midsection, fucking blade he didn't even see, bastards.
Breathe. Sew.
He wishes he could sew like Alfred does, medical precision and all that shit, first the lower layers of skin, then the outer layers, like a surgeon. The healing and the scars were never that bad when the old man had patched him up.
This is gonna take weeks to come back from, and the scar's gonna be ugly as hell.
Chuckling bitterly at the thought, Jay pulls the last stitch taught and ties it off, cuts the cheap sewing thread with his favorite knife.
A long draw off the bottle of Jack he keeps for just this sort of occasion, and Jay gives into the pain, not even bothering to clean up. It'll just have to wait till he wakes up.
~*~*~*~
The Boogieman | R | 153 w | Seasons come and go, but he is still the same; Ancient
Somewhere along the way, Jason stopped counting the years. All the other Bats he once knew-and their descendants with them-were long dead, most of the Titans as well, with only the Supers, the Wonders, and him remaining, the last of a fabled generation.
Of course, he was the only one using the much-despised Lazarus Pit to regenerate himself, the others still naturally young after so many millennia. Clark. Diana. Donna. But his scars faded with each use, a new canvas upon which to rewrite his history, old injuries mended so he could fight once again. It was a good trade off with the decade-long bouts of insanity that inevitably followed, considering the alternative.
And century after century, the legend of the Red Hood grew, as ancient and feared as the once-vaunted Batman, the savior and scourge of Gotham. As boogieman stories went, it wasn't half-bad.
If only he wasn't so fucking alone.
~*~*~*~